It takes a certain kind of person to work underground. Kept in a windowless, halogen cave next to a crummy gymnasium with a dozen sweating cheapskates. Behind the counter some wallflower with "Brian" pinned to the middle of his T-shirt struggled to ring up a woman's nearly grand-worth of purchases. He asked for the help of a quiet and slight gay man, "Dave," a man who I assumed went home to his mother after most shifts. One register over was an older woman, or rather a man dressed as such. He had had no surgeries, his voice still had a low and gravelly timber. But his nails were long and painted, his bra weighted with stuffing, and his wig a short silver bob. His glasses even reminded me of my grandmother's. And I thought it how cruel, how unbelievably sad it must be to be one thing deep inside but only able to afford the accoutrements. She was old. It was who she'd be forever. And it took her three tries to get my attention and call me over.
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